


My Beautiful Reaper Sings (Memento Mori)

by madqueenofhellskitchen



Series: Eternal Red Strings [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, Bilbo is Death, Character Death, Consequences, Dark Comedy, Death, Dying characters, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone else is just wholly confused and confounded, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Grim Reapers, Grim reaper au, Grumpy Thorin, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Real Life, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sassy Bilbo, Schmoop, Soulmates, Suicide, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin is a Cop, Tragic Romance, True Love, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madqueenofhellskitchen/pseuds/madqueenofhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grim Reaper AU. Bilbo Baggins has been Death for decades, and it is a lonely yet fulfilling existence. He escorts the dead and dying to the next stage of life day after day, and he's never asked for more, even if he wants to have someone near him. But he gets his chance when Thorin Durinson, hero-cop, dies in the line of duty. Now Bilbo will awaken the man and offer him the chance to be his assistant for however long he wishes, and he will teach Thorin the true meaning of life; he will show him the preciousness that breathing comes with, showing him beauty, grief, and loss all in one. And there will be a bond between them, something akin to love and joy when they share tea and watch the world go by as the travel it and aid the needy souls. But Death cannot love, right? He's already gone, and so is Thorin. But no one warned Bilbo Baggins that though he was dead, he still had a loving heart--or that Thorin and him were meant to be something more, something grand, that would change the world of the living and the world of death both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ivy

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the newest plot-bunny to be formed, everybody! This came to me in the middle of the evening and I honestly couldn’t put it down. I’ve been meaning to write more full-length Bagginshield story for some time, and this one‘s channeling RIPD, Pushing Daisies, and a bit of Supernatural as well.
> 
> Rating is going to remain at T for the entire story, but because, as you saw from the description, this is a story about death, you will be dealing with some heavy themes now and then: death, murder, dying and suicide. Each chapter—when those themes appear, though—will have a warning and trust me on this point: This story is going to have a lot of sass, shameless fluff, and happiness to make up for everything. Pushing Daisies inspired me, after all. And hey, Death is Bilbo Baggins. So there’s that.
> 
> Everyone should make an appearance in this AU and there’s no set number of chapters. You’re always welcome to send in any ideas or suggestions, too!
> 
> Alright, kids, let’s get this started. Chapters are named after various plants in ode to the Shire, and O’ Death lyrics will certainly be abound. 
> 
> You all can find me at RagingQueenUndertheMountain on Tumblr, too! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death enjoys his morning walk, Thorin's day just got horrible despite the appearance of someone beautiful, and It begins. 
> 
> Changes for both he and Bilbo Baggins begin.

\---

**My Beautiful Reaper Sings (Memento Mori)**

** One  **

**Ivy**

_Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,_

_That creepeth o'er ruins old!_

_Of right choice food are his meals I ween,_

_In his cell so lone and cold_

_Creeping where no life is seen,_

_A rare old plant is the ivy green_

_\- Charles Dickens_

\---

There’s a soft breeze flowing through the town of Erebor; it’s just on the wrong side of chilly, and the citizens cannot help but cling to their long pea-coats and briefcases, hurrying along their way to work, to home, to wherever they must be. To their fates, to their lives, skittering down the sidewalk with gold on their wrists and worries in their heads.

And ninety-nine percent of the time, they never run into Him.

People, that is. Not just Ereborians. Though they themselves are quite a lovely sort, Bilbo Baggins thinks to himself as he too walks down these cold sidewalks, slightly shivering.

_Old Man Winter is near._

His mind wanders as the storefronts pass his hazel eyes, as the wind whips at his ebony pinstripe suit and pea-coat while a woman nearby bemoans the weather as she holds her child close, the babe’s little blonde braids whipping about as she giggles; it’s a sound Bilbo enjoys hearing, and it reminds him of his youth. Of the days when he would laugh while Bungo carried him on his shoulders around the markets; of the days when he hid under Belladonna’s skirts while she crocheted.

As the years pass, he sometimes forgets how long it’s been since those days—sixty years? Seventy? 

One hundred? More?

Time flows differently for Bilbo Baggins now, but he tries not to let it bother him. The rest of the world is still the same in the end and that’s all that really matters.

And he is still the same, no matter how many decades it has been; he can still walk down the street and watch them all go by; and he can feel the wind in his hair while keeping his body close and centered, not reaching out, not expressing out, and that’s really okay. He can taste the sweetness of strawberries and watch the flowers grow, carefully picking them up with his usable hand and enjoying life.

Even if he’s dead. Even if the majority of souls never acknowledge he exists.

And he can still walk down these streets, as he does now. And it’s quite easy, actually; for it is a natural instinct for the living to avoid his presence. Subconsciously, they walk around him, avoiding his body, avoiding Him.

The living know when Death is near, even if it is under the level of awareness, and when it is not their time, they leave Him be. 

They flow past him like they are a river and Bilbo is a boulder in the middle of it all; it reminds him when he was a child and Bungo let him hop on rocks in the river near their farmhouse, sidestepping the water with all his might, with all his will.

How roles have the ability to reverse in reality.

But of course, for Bilbo, he’s never one-hundred percent lucky. He’s never been that lucky, really; even when the library was his fortress of solitude, he had the worst luck. There’d be cranky patrons, books falling on his head, his glasses going missing…

Well, he may not miss the first two, but he sometimes misses having to use his spectacles. They’re only a heavy weight now in his pocket; a memento, he told Elrond, something to remember everything by. 

Because he likes to hold on to those little memories, those little pieces of himself—he’s afraid of what will happen if he does not.

Getting back to it, though, yes, even dead, Bilbo is unlucky—because sometimes, people do touch him on the street. 

And, well, Bilbo then finds himself doing his job without much warning.

Like on this day.

He can see the hurried man coming—he’s blabbering on the phone to a woman he’s been having an affair with, while worrying if he should text his wife and lie again; there’s two kids at home, Bilbo knows just by looking at the man, his whole life story clear as day, and the man’s number one priority jumps between heart problems and _heart problems._

Heh. Well, you honestly can’t blame Bilbo for trying to find humor in it all, can you?

It’s hard to find it when the man huffs as he hangs up, and his shoulder collides with Bilbo’s.

“Hey, watch-!”

He never finishes that sentence.

He never will.

And Bilbo doesn’t look back.

He also never will.

Because he knows the oldest trick in the book by heart, in this day and age. There are those that, when death is just meant to be sudden, will seek him out. Sometimes it’s Elrond’s twisting of fate—Maker preserve him, really—and sometimes it is just the way things are meant to be.

The man—thirty-five, a lover of fast food and fast life—falls down to his knees with a wordless gasp, briefcase falling from his hands, unlocking and a few papers fly loose into the sky. People surround him instantly, a woman next to him screaming in shock; then one after another come to see, some checking his pulse, some staring at the dead look in his eyes that only comes from a heart-attack in the middle of the city streets.

They’ll call his wife, they’ll console his children, and his mistress will find out through the newspaper headings; his business will be sold, his wife will marry again and his children will be just fine.

Everyone is usually just fine in the end, after all.

And his spirit will be escorted by someone else, for Bilbo isn’t hearing the man’s voice in his ear; he’s going to assume Elrond’s picking the man up, or sending Lindir, his personal secretary, to do the job for him.

They both know Bilbo’s already got a job for the day.

And they all know there’s nothing left for Bilbo to do about the man except brush off his lovely black coat from the man’s ‘rudeness’ with a somber smile and a sigh; and no one looks upon his right hand, and the lack of skin and muscles it holds, the price he pays for being Death. 

But he hides it when the motion is completed, and he moves along—always moving along.

For he has a direct goal today, and he’ll see that goal —find that goal-- in the middle of the city, as he gazes in the window of a jewelry shop, as he eyes the pretty opals and sapphires.

And as the wind blows through his hair.

And, truthfully, as Bilbo reminds himself, that though this seems to be a very ordinary day, he knows it is going to be anything but.

If anything, things are probably going to go…quite _unexpected_ indeed. 

\---

Thorin Durinson enjoys routine—and in all honesty, if you don’t enjoy routine, he’s probably going to think you’re a little bit crazy in the head.

People need to have a purpose, Thorin believes. People need to have goals, direction, purpose.

Life is not just given as a purpose, he tells his nephews, it must be created to have a purpose. One must hew that purpose from stone, from the sturdiest materials possible and mold it into a masterpiece. Only then is life the greatest it can be.

And Thorin knows his purpose—it’s usually taking down scum that plague his city; it usually involves taking down gangs that call themselves ‘Orcs’ (or trying, in this case) and it usually involves aiding the white-collar unit with taking down corrupt businessmen that wear flamboyant, sparkling red suits and have dragons plastered _everywhere_ (again, trying in this case).

And he knows his routine by heart now, too—it’s usually a seven AM wake-up call, alarm blaring some obscene pop-song (he really needs to take time to change the radio on the clock), with a cup of coffee after a fifteen minute shower—black, two sugars, because he was born with a secret sweet tooth—while tossing a bagel into his mouth and eating in a hurry.

He’ll pass the portraits of his family on the mantle every day right at seven-thirty, feeling that little spark of hope each time he sees Dis’ sweet smile; there’s also Kili’s high-school graduation photograph, with Fili’s college portraits, and they always make him proud of how far his nephews have come.

And then there’s Thror and Thrain, grandfather long-gone and father slowly-fading, and Thorin smiles to himself as he ties his shoes, black to match his navy patrol uniform that they all wear, all day, every day (thank the Heavens he can stand the color after these two years); then comes the badge, the gun, a breath or two as he finishes up, grabbing his things, his coat, and he’s out the door.

Erebor is one of those towns where it is both large, and yet small; the citizens here have grown upon the land for centuries, or so they say; everyone knows everyone. There’s hustle and bustle, cars and even a subway underneath that is famous for its shining staircases that tourists compare to starlight, to gems. The Stairways to More, they say—to trains that will take you to wherever you wish to go, and stairs to the city above, they call them.

Thorin merely just calls them nonsense. He always walks to work.

It saves him the trouble of gas, plus the station is only fifteen minutes away; and the man prefers his sunlight, his fresh air and what not to the roads and the gasoline.

And, well, it gives him an excuse to harass his partner Dwalin as they walk together and punch each other’s shoulders and shoot the breeze while the taller man chugs his coffee and barks out words in his Scottish accent.

Dwalin’s shooting for more than just the mere municipal patrol position they both have now; he’s always told Thorin, ever since the early college days and somewhat-later academy days, that he’s wanted state or federal law enforcement as a real career. And Thorin, in return, supposes he could want the same but this…what they have now, it gets him close to the people. He honestly feels like he’s got a station in life that has him doing things. Less bureaucracy, he tells the other; though he won’t say no to a promotion to chief of police, if one is looking.

Thorin also enjoys the walk because it takes them past not the heart of Erebor, with its gleaming skyscrapers and shining towers, but a ‘vein’ instead. Shops line the streets, people mingle, and there’s a scent of fresh bread in the air as people begin their Monday. It's more peaceful, it's subtle in its beauty, and it is truly home in Thorin's eyes.

Yes. And it’s a Monday and though Dwalin is grumbling, Thorin is smiling, glad to no longer be stagnant; his weekends are dreadfully boring. Perhaps he reads a book, or tries (and fails) to cook something new, and the television is always there, but Thorin never seems to go out, or have the desire.

“Such a shame,” Dwalin always scoffs, “Ya could really get some nice lady on yer arm and have a good time with the looks you’ve got.”

And of course, each time his friend teases him, Thorin just rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mention that he’s more inclined towards the more masculine of the two sexes (though he’s pretty sure Dwalin already knows—and can sometimes be the same). He also doesn’t mention that, yes, despite the “Durinson looks” of long, dark, soft-as-silk hair and bright eyes being his, they don’t necessarily do him any favors. His whole aura screams cop, be it from the scowl on his face half the time, to his stocky stature, and half the time, both males and females stay away from him. It probably doesn’t help that Thorin likes to wear the uniform even when he’s off-duty—power-trip issues, perhaps, or maybe it is because he secretly wants to protect even from the shadows—too.

Thorin just lets it go; he’s content with his life. He’s content with visiting his sister and his nephews on a regular basis. He’s content with phone-calls from Frerin from Europe on his extravagant dalliances in a time frame that is sometimes too, too short, but then achingly long at other moments. He’s content with visiting his father in the hospice every other weekend, making sure he is well. He’s content with visiting the graves of his mother and grandparents every so often, with the rest of the family in tow. If he finds happiness outside, if he finds a purpose outside, of what he has now, he’ll deal with that then.

“Yer obsessed with death.” Dwalin sometimes teases him, and Thorin will snort with derision into his second cup of coffee.

“I cannot help what my family has gone through. And I know you understand.”

Dwalin’s never told him what he’s lost; he’s never told him why he’s never settled down with a pretty thing. 

But Thorin knows there’s pictures in his desk of someone long-gone but he’s never had the heart to ask. Dwalin’s sad gray eyes tell enough of a story.

And just because Thorin’s family is so closely connected with death doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate life, or beauty, or the things around him that encompass such.

Right now, on this morning, he finds a perfect example—because as they walk, and Dwalin prattles on about something stupid Nori, one of their top intelligence and data analysis agents, did over the weekend, he spots something… _beautiful._

There’s a man, across the street from them. He’s got curls that look made of a mixture of melted gold and warm chocolate, and Thorin can see half of a sweet smile on his face as he stares into the window of _La Bella Opale_ , a pudgy finger tapping the window that is housing beautiful sapphires and gems that few and far between can actually afford. He’s dressed all in black, and yet it highlights his whiter skin and his ruddy cheeks that look rosy from being wind-whipped too much.

And then the man turns a bit more and his eyes are the loveliest shade of hazel and Thorin finds his feet halting as their gazes lock. There’s a chill down his spine, a stuttering in his heart and he can only gape at the stranger and his entire frame.

“Ey?” Dwalin had kept walking, but stopped when Thorin halted, and he looks back, “What ya starin’ at?”

“…Don’t you see him?” Thorin ignores how breathy he sounds; he’s a Durinson, he shouldn’t be fawning over a complete stranger, but he can’t look away. And it seems the other cannot, either, because he even lets out a little giggle—oh, that’s cute, he has the sweetest smile, and he’s small and nearly buck-toothed, how precious—and Thorin finds himself not minding that he’s gotten into a staring contest with someone who could be a down-right lunatic, someone he knows nothing about.

He’s usually not so…open. Thorin’s not one for openly trusting someone, for talking to someone, for being near someone or trying to communicate with another human being; he knows he’s closed-off, sometimes even cold and antagonistic. But here, here…something is happening, and he’s getting urges, he’s-

“Who?” Dwalin huffs, “I don’t see nobody.”

“He’s…lovely.” Thorin smiles, and though it came out as a whisper, he wonders, if somehow, the man heard it, because he demurely puts a hand to his lips in silent laughter. 

Dwalin is silent for a moment, “…Again. _Who?_ I don’t see anyone!” He’s looking in the same direction Thorin is, and his hairy brows are furrowed in consternation.

“How can you not see him?” Thorin even gestures to the man, and then, sorrowfully, breaks the stare to look up at Dwalin quickly, “He’s in front of _La Bella Opale’s_ window, you big dolt.”

“I ain’t seeing anybody beautiful there, man. Are you sure you’re not going nuts?”

“I’m telling you, he’s right-“ And Thorin turns back, only to gape.

Because the man is gone.

“…W-What…?"

He looks down the streets, and there’s no sign of a black coat or black pants; there’s no curls amongst the crowd, and his heart freezes up, turning cold; did he just… _imagine what he saw?_

But no, no, that’s impossible—he saw this man, this beautiful man, he was five seconds from running across the street like a lunatic to ask for his number (Good Lord above, is something wrong with him? Is it like Dwalin says, does he really need to get out more?), he was _real._ Thorin knows it, feels it in his cold-as-ice bones, feels it in his thumping heart.

And yet…

“Aye, you’re just seeing things. Told you ‘bout leaving your house more.” Dwalin thumps him on the shoulder, and Thorin lets out a sigh. 

But it doesn’t feel like it was a hallucination.

It feels like a homecoming instead…

Regardless, he cannot think on it forever—there’s work to be done.

But he does still thinks on it, and Thorin admonishes himself for it.

He feels haunted as Dwalin pours him another cup of coffee at the station—‘you look like ya need it, hehe.’—and he almost would say he can see the man in the reflection of the windows, he would almost say he could reach out to the glass and touch skin instead, from the way he’s seeing him.

Thorin starts to wonder if he actually _is_ seeing him.

And not just metaphorically, either.

There’s a metaphor there, somewhere, though; he thinks of those eyes as he works through the reports on the computer, handing off documents to his chief, to Dwalin, to others whose faces he usually absorbs so well, but is too distracted to do so today. He plans out possible skirmishes and raids for the next three days that are looking like they will come into fruition very well and that the gangs may actually take a good hit. He usually finds himself smirking when he knows Azog and all his slimy counterparts will lose profit; but today, in the clear erase-board they always write on, he sees a apparition of a man and he nearly drops the marker when he spells out the words ‘take down’ because there is that man's face again, and it shocks him to his core.

Thorin’s starting to wonder if he’s either losing his mind, or if he’s just a love-sick sap.

It’s probably both.

But he still goes about his business; a phone-call here or there, a few laughs mingled at lunch with the boys, and things seem normal. He’s still on his routine, he’s still got his purpose, so Thorin is still fine.

But then they get the call.

It’s a robbery-in-progress, and Thorin volunteers himself and Dwalin to go; they’ve handled this before, and it’s always gone well. Dwalin has sometimes butted heads—literally—with the culprit and he’s built like an early-balding boulder that has no problems taking out the trash. Sometimes Thorin’s had to put a bullet in a leg or an arm, wounding them until the cuffs could be put on, but there was never any major trouble. He’s gotten commendations for his good work, more than just mere pats on his back, and Thorin isn’t worried today, either.

But the moment they get to the grocery store on the corner of Prospect and Snow, and a body comes flying out of the window, their guns are drawn and Dwalin ducks behind the patrol car to avoid the shattering of glass while Thorin flies to the side, staring at the dead body that had been shot point-blank in the chest.

It’s a citizen—he knows it’s not the store-owner, because he knows Gloin very well, he’s an old family friend, and that lean body and head covered in long, blond curls certainly isn’t him.

“Call for backup!” Thorin barks at his partner, and though Dwalin’s about to stutter out that he shouldn’t go in there alone, he doesn’t. He holds himself back because he’s fairly certain Thorin won’t listen to him anyway.

And that assumption is correct.

Gun drawn, the black-haired male entered with soft-footsteps, but the culprit knew he was here; the sirens had been blaring outside, the lights flashing, and there’s an obviously dead person outside. His breathing is calm, his arm is raised, and he can hear the deranged fool screaming from the heart of the store.

And yes, Gloin is there, hands raised, looking for all the world petrified; he’s got a wife and kid at home, Thorin’s met them and they are the dearest things. He can see that Gloin’s life is flashing before his eyes as the sawed-off shotgun is pointed straight at his heart.

Thorin wonders if this is about something more than money, as he creeps closer and closer; because there it is, all laid out in a sack, but the man isn’t taking it; he’s babbling nonsense about that it’s ‘not enough’, and his voice is cracking. Thorin’s had enough, though, and he barks out ‘FREEZE!’ and all words halt.

And then he sees who the robber is: Bolg, son of Azog, and he’s sweating profusely, lips twitching, and he’s looking as if he has had a psychotic break from the blank, yet still angry, look in his eyes.

“…You…” He growls out at Thorin, and he levels the gun at said cop, whose own pistol looks like a mere babe compared to the heat Bolg is packing, “Durinson…This is all your fault!” He screams, and Thorin, bless him, looks very much confused and manages to yell out, despite his life being threatened,

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“MY FATHER IS SICK BECAUSE OF YOU!” Bolg’s eyes are actually terrified and tear-filled and Gloin is whimpering in the background; Thorin manages to nod the man towards the back door, and his old friend flees, running. Though Thorin can’t see it, the red-head, with his magnificent beard that reaches down to his chest, is running towards Dwalin, shouting the situation, and Dwalin’s instantly become terrified.

“Bolg…Whatever is happening to your father, I have had no part of-“

“LIES!” And he levels the gun at Thorin’s head and though he is sure he imagines it, Thorin thinks he’s seen a reflection in the mirror that is behind the counter of the grocery store.

A reflection of a short man with curls that make the sun jealous of their brightness.

“BOLG! Just put the gun down!” That is Dwalin, finally entering, his own gun drawn, but Bolg, with his pasty skin and visible bones and dark blue eyes, can only focus on Thorin.

“He’s sick, he’s stressed, and it’s all because of YOU. Because of your campaign against him, and we are going to lose _everything_ , and it is-“

“BOLG, ENOUGH!” Thorin shouts, and the moment the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake; Bolg’s had a break, he’s not fully here mentally and emotionally, and he’s been trained to deal with people like that—months of psychotherapeutic training from the academy’s hired professionals, and now he decides not to listen. Granted, he’s never been good at such a thing anyway, but he’s usually better than this. Maybe it is because it’s Bolg, maybe it’s because he’s being accused of a whole lot of utter nonsense, but Thorin’s finally lost his cool.

And it will cost him everything.

A bullet fires, and it hits him square in the neck, and before he even hits the ground, the gun’s gone off again, his head the target this time, and before he even hits the ground, Thorin knows he’s a goner—there’s been a severing of an artery, and Dwalin can scream “NO” as much as he wants, but he knows this isn’t going to end well.

Because Bolg, though harmed and harmful, was smart enough to not go for the disguised bullet-proof vest that is underneath his uniform.

Thorin can’t see anything, as he lies amongst the destroyed piles of chips and vegetables; he can only wheeze and feel the blood drain from his body as another gun goes off again and Bolg goes down, Dwalin sparing him no mercy.

He can hear his pounding heart, but he can’t feel anything—and that’s when he knows something is wrong.

But then…he does see something.

There’s a face swimming in his vision, and it holds a hand upon its lips in a frown, and there’s a few tears in those hazel eyes and he can’t believe that his last vision is going to be the man he’s gotten a crush on in the span of only a few seconds, whose name he doesn't even know.

Thorin thinks that he’s really a desperate soul if that is what he is going to be thinking of in his last moments.

There’s a soft hand on his head, and the man above him smiles, and then he doesn’t see any of him—he’s gone, but instead, he does see what he wants to: there’s him and his siblings growing up in their large home that’s been long-gone and sold away for money; there’s Frerin and his golden hair, and Dis with her magnificent ebony locks as she swings on the set and her middle sibling pushes her. There they all are, at prom—Thorin smirks because he remembers he couldn’t get a date and Frerin had _three_ —dancing and having a wonderful time.

Then came college and Frerin flew up to Europe with his career in music education and music creation; Dis went on to marry a man that would fall ill but leave her with the best two little gems in the world and Thorin sees them too; Fili very much like his other uncle while Kili looks like Thorin did twenty years ago.

And they’re going to do so well, he thinks to himself as his body is lifted up onto a gurney and is being rolled away, first into an ambulance, and then down hallway after hallway. He cannot sense any of it, cannot feel any of it, and he wonders if it really is a blessing as his eyes close and the doctors and nurses put a breathing mask on his nose and lips, trying to pump oxygen into him as they wheel him into surgery and place in IV’s.

And no one notices the man in black sitting right outside, swinging his little legs as he sighs—because he always hates this part.

The ‘almost-hopeful’ part, he calls it. When the family is rushed in, called, waiting to hear the news and they’re hoping it will be okay.

Even though he knows it won’t be, and he honestly can’t tell them that it won't--he holds the knowledge guiltily by himself.

But he’s at least given Thorin a blessing—a last few moments to focus on the good as they try and resuscitate him, try and heal him as he still continues to bleed out on the emergency room floor and the doctors knew it, too—they knew it was over before it even began, but it was Thorin Durinson, policeman extraordinaire for their town, so why not try and save him?

But they cannot.

And Thorin sees a smile right before his heart stops, right before his brain shuts down, and if there’s a small tear from his eye falling onto the linoleum, it is never seen—except by Bilbo Baggins, who has finally entered the operating room as they sign the final papers, turn off the machines, and cover Thorin with a sheet. They’ll take him to the morgue in a few moments, but the doctor first has to go to Dis and the boys; they are there in the waiting room, and Bilbo cannot look at them. He won’t lie, he always has trouble dealing with the families because…well.

They’re still living.

The dead need no tears, because their pain is gone—it’s the living who continually suffer.

He follows the nurses as they wheel Thorin out and pull down the sheet to reveal his head; the family will see that, and the bandages they have applied to hide the wound, and he’ll even be facing the other way, with his undamaged parts towards the walls, so they do not see the worst of the damage.

Because no one needs to see that.

And though Bilbo cannot see Dis as she stands stone-cold still in the waiting room, he hears her scream and he can picture sweet Fili clinging to his mother as she falls to her knees because their own hearts have taken an emotional bullet and they’re not sure if they will ever recover. And he can picture how Kili stares into the distance, head hanging with hands clinging to dark locks while Dwalin wants to destroy the hospital and everything in it, even going so far as to punch the wall.

But Bilbo cannot worry about this—because he’s got a job to do.

Well…a job and an idea.

You see, he’s never been given… _explicit permission_ that he could take on an assistant. It’s usually not something that’s done when one is Death. They do their duty alone, go home at the end of the day—well, not _really_ , but you know what Bilbo means—knowing they have alone succeeded in helping a man or woman pass on to the next stage of life. Bilbo’s not even really sure what that stage is—he never made it there, snatched up beforehand and given the offer of a ‘not-lifetime’, taking the ‘black’ and the metaphorical scythe and everything and voila. That was that.

But now, as he stares down at the…quite lovely face of Thorin Durinson, Bilbo sees a man cut off in his prime—but he’s seen that a lot, so why focus so heavily on this human being? This creature? Thorin is like many other men, like many other police officers even, so why should Bilbo awaken him and offer him a new chance at something great?

He tells himself that it is because, truth be told, Thorin died while thinking so, so many wrong things about life. He could see it in his mind, in his eyes, how Thorin viewed the world, and Bilbo tells himself it is a pity he ended up dead before learning the truth.

Or, maybe, this was the only way to teach him the truth…

Bilbo tries to reason with himself this is why he wants Thorin to awaken and walk by his side—because many died, yes, many died before him, but their outlook on life was so much more blessedly bountiful and warm and full of the true riches one needs to have. Thorin, well…he’s got so much work to do.

Bilbo also tries to not think about that he may want to spare Thorin because the man actually…saw him.

It’s not something he’s entirely used to—sure, those meant to die and be escorted see him on the streets, see him and maybe look upon him for a few seconds, then turn away, not paying him any mind, not paying him any attention whatsoever.

But Thorin…Thorin openly gaped at him as if he was something beautiful.

Bilbo Baggins is not used to being thought of as beautiful.

 _Death? Beautiful? That is quite funny indeed…_ Ah, the humor of it all. The brevity of it all. 

Bilbo feels he’s going to need a stiff cup of tea after all of this, regardless.

Maybe two or three, if the way his mind keeps jumping back and forth between YES and NO is anything to go by; his brows furrow, then unclench, then furrow again, and there’s sigh after sigh in the morgue as Thorin is unmoving, un-gazing, and Bilbo hates that, as Death, he’s quite indecisive sometimes.

Sure, it usually involves if he should eat a scone or not, or if he should stay indoors somewhere on a particular day; it usually doesn’t involve bringing up a spirit and not escorting them back to the next step of life.

Oh, bother, he’s going to get in trouble isn’t he? This was such a good idea to begin with, and now, now…

Now he can hear Old Man Winter chuckling and Bilbo finds himself huffing up—his mother was not a coward, and nor is he.

Death cannot be cowardly in any circumstance.

Even if Death decides to bend and break the rules.

So with one final sigh, a finger made of bone reaches out, while Bilbo bends down towards Thorin’s face.

And with one—only one, for more is deadly—touch to his forehead, he awakens, eyes shooting open as his spirit disconnects with his body, and Thorin openly gapes at the vision before him. All that will be left for Bilbo to do is give him his good hand and help him ‘stand’ apart from the physical body he has been residing in all this time.

But…that is to come soon enough. Not right now.

For Bilbo has made up his mind…

“Thorin Durinson,” Bilbo does his best to steady his voice with a smile, “My name…is Bilbo Baggins. But you may know me as…Death.”

“W-What?”

“Yes, my dear man. Death. But don’t be alarmed. I have an offer for you.”

\---

_O, Death_

_O, Death_

_Won't you spare me over til another year?_


	2. Poppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit leaves the body, Thorin falls flat on his face, Death enjoys his daily cup of Earl Gray, and he makes a deal with the one man who can keep him on his toes with both words and actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for the views, kudos and comments on chapter one! It was really wonderful to hear a lot of positive feedback from everyone and it’s really helped encourage me to keep the story going! Please don’t hesitate to leave more notes and comments and let me know your thoughts and suggestions :) Now that I am out of school for a few months, this will be my summer writing project. Expect frequent updates! 
> 
> You'll also see that this work is now the first story in what is to hopefully be a series! I'm not going to reveal much at the moment, but expect more supernatural elements in the future if things go as planned.
> 
> You can also find an entire page on my Tumblr that has music choices that are inspired by this story! Just type in "/tagged/Reaper AU music" when going to my blog :) You can also tell me any songs you think truly relate to the story too and I will add them. 
> 
> Now, on to chapter two. Enjoy the sass, breakfast tea, and deathly woes that accompany it. Also, let's play "Spot the Supernatural TV show reference", guys! :D

****

**Two**

 ****

****

**Poppy**

 ****

_Teach me, Father, how to go_

_Softly as the grasses grow;_

_Hush my soul to meet the shock_

_Of the wild world as a rock;_

_But my spirit, propt with power,_

_Make as simple as a flower._

_Let the dry heart fill its cup,_

_Like a poppy looking up;_

_Let life lightly wear her crown,_

_Like a poppy looking down,_

_When its heart is filled with dew,_

_And its life begins anew._

_-Edwin Markham, A Prayer_

\---

His brain cannot register too much information at this point in time; sometimes, long ago, Thorin found himself able to do such a thing quite well. It came with the job, making sure he had taken in his entire surroundings; known the where and who and what and why of each crime scene, of each car chase and each gun-drawn stand-off. Where were the exits? Where were the aggressors, the innocents? The windows, the walls, the items in question?  


He’s used to taking in information like any good officer—it’s why he was up for a promotion in about half a year.  


Of course, Thorin doesn’t know that.  


He’s dead—he knows nothing except that there is a short man standing on his tip-toes, leaning over his face with a small smile, and he’s all dressed in black, and…  


And…  


And he’s _what now?_  


“…D…Death…” It’s Thorin’s second word upon awakening; it’s not that eloquent, but neither was the ‘what’ he had stuttered out just a moment ago.  


“Yes, that’s me.” The man looks nothing like the stereotypical vision of Death; there’s no skeleton, no scythe, or none visible from this angle, at least, and his honey-brown curls are everywhere, and his eyes are full of life, and are not void of emotion. He looks frazzled, though and he’s giving Thorin a lopsided smile and rubbing his head with a sigh, speaking quietly,

“Dreadfully sorry we have to meet like this.”  


And then, well, it hits Thorin.  


This is _Death._  


And ‘this’ is really two things—‘this’ is the person and ‘this’ is the event.  


For he is dead…He sees in his mind the bullets hitting his body, tearing through flesh and bone; he sees the fading light.  


And he remembers seeing the man before him.  


Death.  


Death in the mirror, Death in the windows, Death on the sidewalk in _front of the jewelry store._  


“I…No.” Thorin breathes out, because though the bullets pierced him, though he faded from reality, though he felt himself fading from reality, the instinct comes up from his soul and flows from his lips; it’s denial, it’s just what comes natural for human beings, and of course, since he is a Durinson denial flows easily into anger,  


“No. You’re wrong.” It’s a short snarl, “You are nothing but…but an illusion. A fallacy!”  


He wanted to say ‘fantasy’, but Thorin figured that telling the man he had been seeing everywhere—which, had he truly been seeing him everywhere?—that he was a fantasy when, well, he _had_ been a somewhat-romantic-fantasy would probably be wrong. Even if he probably was actually a fantasy.  


…Well, when one wrapped their mind around all of that, it was just downright confusing; and it didn’t help that the man was sighing, looking downright pitiful and pitying.  


Death wasn’t pitying—it was cold and mocking and not…not…not rosy-cheeked and tapping its finger on its chin as if it was trying to be patient as Thorin ranted on, with,  


“You are nothing but…but…you are just not real! And all of this, well, this is merely just…just…”  


“Just?” A lean brown brow rose in question, a soft hand coming up to lips almost as if they were hiding a laugh.  


“Just…no! I am…I…I’m not…”  


But what is in his mind’s eye cannot be unseen; what happened when he fell and crashed and when Dwalin screamed and killed another man cannot be erased.  


“I’m…I’m dead…” Thorin’s words hold no tone, no breath, and the man above him sighs.  


“Yes. You are dead. You are a logical man, and I know you cannot deny it, can you?”  


A pause, then, “…No…”  


The two are silent for a moment, Death staring down upon him with actual remorse; even more so when Thorin questions him with,  


“Did you actually cause me to die?”  


“No, Thorin. I did not cause you to die. But I knew it was your time to die.” Death nods—he cannot think of him as his other name, not at the moment, it’s still just all too new—“It was why I followed you.”  


“So you were following me.” Thorin snorts with derision, “That was you, wasn’t it? In the glass at the store? And the clear board at the station? I remember seeing you and thought I was delusional.”  


Death has the grace to look a bit shamed, as a soft blush blossoms onto his cheeks, “…Yes. Normally I wait until the event has truly happened to appear, but I suppose I have to say that I found your circumstance…fascinating.”  


That causes the dark-haired one to frown, “’Interesting’? You make it sound as if I am some _specimen._ ”  


“O-Oh, no!“ Death shakes his head, “No, no, I did not mean it like that. You yourself are an…interesting human being, in regards to what you…think.” He nods, then, curls bouncing, continuing with more words as he gains more courage, “In what you believe. Your gumption and inner strength towards your beliefs and ideals is fascinating.”  


Thorin could do nothing but blink at the words, almost downright flattered; he had not heard such blunt complimentary words in what felt like years, and it seemed odd that it would be Death to give him kindness. He had always believed that death in any and all forms would give him anything but kindness; it would bring bleakness, blackness, pain and misery.  


And yet, here is Death before him, saying kind and thoughtful words, and his earlier thoughts that this man was…beautiful…still ring true. There is something about this man that holds a bit of beauty, even though now that they are close, Thorin can see imperfections. Death’s skin is pale under the fluorescent lights of the morgue; there are dark circles under his eyes but they manage to bring out his hazel eyes. His hand that is resting near Thorin’s head is tiny, dwarfing Thorin’s comically; his face is bare of hair, even though he looks as if he could pass for his mid-thirties, maybe even forties.  


“…Thank you…” Thorin murmurs, feeling the compliments need to be paid in full, and really, he wants to change his train of thought; staring Death in the face is easier metaphorically than actually.  


But of course, Thorin should have known that Death would be anything but easy to understand, because he counters with,  


“Of course. Interesting in the way that I find them to be entirely wrong in every which way.”  


Thorin’s mouth drops open in insult and he shouts out a “What?!” at the rude little creature who has the audacity to give him another small smile and turn around to fix and fiddle with his coat in a manner that looks almost shy—if he had not just insulted Thorin.  


“Excuse me? What right do you have to judge-“ But Thorin cuts himself off; because he realizes that, as the acid dances on his tongue, he cannot move. He’s stuck. Frozen in…well. He’s not truly sure.  


But if he was to bet any form of money, he’d bet he’s stuck in his body—and it turns out, he’s meant to win that bet, as Death hurries over with a worrying frown and murmurs,  


“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry! Seems I got side-tracked from the most important part because of our conversation.”  


Death gives him a grin, then, and moves his visible, solid hand out of Thorin’s sight; but it only takes a second until he can feel those lithe fingers—they are entwined with his own.  


“What are you-“  


“Hush, you. This will only take a moment.”  


And then Death— _Bilbo Baggins_ , Thorin’s mind supplies helpfully as the other leans down just a bit more, so they are eye-to-eye, all the while still smiling—gently pulls on his hand and Thorin feels himself moving, slowly, as if he is walking through a fog. He feels himself sitting up now, and his legs too are wakening and there is air rushing through his ears, through his long hair and there is tingling all over his form.  


Death lets his hand go then, and steps back a few inches, whispering after giving his legs a few gentle pats,  


“You should be able to move your legs now. But I will stand here—sometimes men and women fall after their awakening.”  


Thorin snorts at the comment, and said snort has got an edge of cockiness to it; surely he does not need assistance to stand, out of anything that he could possibly need help with, it surely cannot be using his own two feet.  


So he moves, then, and it feels like floating; his eyes are not paying attention, for if they were, they would see that his spirit is leaving his body, sparks of blue fluttering into the breeze as the connection between body and soul is severed; the linoleum beneath his feet makes no sound at the moment his feet make to hit it; nor does the world look gray, or him—his body’s colors are the same, even if he seems to be more translucent than normal as he stares down at his pale hands and as he makes to step forward after exiting the table.  


Of course, he should have known that because Death said something, it would happen—because Thorin’s legs are weak, and with a curse, he finds himself tumbling; and in this case, Bilbo, brave soul that he is, tries to catch him, but it is to no avail. They end up sprawled on the ground, Death a solid weight underneath the man, eyes shocked and appalled, and the only noises from the scuffle and crash come from the clack of bones upon the ground and the startled gasps of the men in the room.  


Thorin’s right hand feels the softness of a rich, black coat, the other having slammed into the ground mere inches from Bilbo’s own right hand—and the sight of bone shocks him into reality again because that hand is just a skeleton. The crash of death and bones mixes with the scents of poppies and wood that exist on this man’s coat, tinged with fruit and nature and Thorin wonders if he’s about to be sick at the wave of nausea that hits him when he realizes…well…  


He has fallen on top of Death himself.  


“…I bloody told you to be careful!" Bilbo huffs out with a roll of his eyes as Thorin lies atop him, a heavy weight that has closed itself off as the world realigns once more. “Now, now, come on, get off me, you big oaf! I know you fell but-“  


And then Bilbo realizes what has stopped Thorin when he follows his blue gaze—his hand. Visible and out in the open due to the shock of crashing to the floor.  


And he goes silent and jerks his hand away, shoving Thorin harder until the man gets it and sits up, while Bilbo curls into himself, hiding his hand away in its sleeve in shame.  


“…I-I’m sorry.” Thorin breathes out, not truly sure what he is looking at as Death curls up in what must be some form of shame and gives him a sad smile.  


“Quite alright. Though next time, listen to me, yes?” And he sits there, twitching, downright embarrassed if the worry lines on his brow are anything to go by.  


“I suppose it would be wrong for me to ask about your hand, then?”  


“Oh, you saw that?” And with wide eyes, Thorin realizes, he is no longer Death for the moment, but Bilbo Baggins; the man behind the suit, yes, that must be it. He is Death, but those wide eyes, those lips trying to smile and chuckle and play something off as not serious at all—for Thorin knows when people do that, he has seen the guilty and non-guilty alike tried to deter his attention away, and Bilbo Baggins may be Death, but he is still a human entity.  


“Aye, I did. It was…”  


“It is nothing.” Bilbo cuts off his trailed-off-thought by dropping a sentence like a stone with a shake of his head, “Just promise me one thing. If you ever, ever see that hand, do not touch it. Understood?”  


“But-“  


“Understood?” And just like that, Bilbo’s eyes go more solid, more firm, and he is Death once more, giving him a command that was pleading, for the man before him, truly, looked more like a father pleading for prayers than a Death-defying God; it was hard to take him truly serious unless one was to look into his eyes and see the firmness in them.  


“Fine.” Thorin sighed and slowly stood; and even though he was about to insist that he could stand on his own, there was Death coming towards him, solidly-human hand helping to steady him with a sigh.  


“Sorry, really, for being sharp with you. I’m not used to bulky men falling on me. Or not listening to me to be careful.”  


Of course, Death just had to be a cheeky little bastard, didn’t he?  


“I was careful! You were just…in the way.” Thorin found himself huffing in indignation at the creature before him, lips pressing together in annoyance.  


Bilbo laughed, then, “Funny enough, many people say that about me. That I’m always in the way. Getting in the way of dreams, love, happiness…” He waved his hand while shaking his head, “And in your case I guess I was in the way of you falling to the ground and not-breaking your nose. Or is it not-not breaking? Hmph. Regardless, I helped in some way.”  


“Yes, you are my savior, I suppose.” Thorin sighed out with sarcasm falling to the ground like pebbles—loud, obtuse, and causing the other to just shake his head once more in judgment.  


“Oh, hush.” And then the smile, of course, faded from the littler one’s face, “…Welcome to the world of the Dead, though. How do you feel?”  


“Like I’m dead, obviously.” Thorin shot back and Bilbo groaned while making to rub his temples,  


“Obviously. I meant, how do you truly feel? Take a minute, adjust yourself instead of being belligerent with me and take a moment for yourself.”  


“What the hell do you mean, ‘take a moment for myself’?” Thorin shot back but Bilbo merely turned, giving him a smile, and saying,  


“You’re dead, Thorin Durinson. Your spirit has left its body and is standing before me. You were surely killed in a painful way and I know for certain your sister does not want an open casket. Now say goodbye to yourself, your old self. I will give you a moment.”  


“Wait, what-“  


But Bilbo merely kept walking on, straightening his suit as he phased through the morgue’s wall with nothing but a gentle hum of a lonely ballad, and a whisper of wind.  


“…Cheeky little brat.” Thorin mutters to himself once Bilbo is gone, “What on Earth is he talking about?”  


And then, of course, he realizes what Bilbo meant as he turns—for there is his body.  


For there is his corpse before his eyes.  


It is him, lying there—small and covered with a sheet. Muscles look thin and skimpy in death, and his face is covered up with bandages and there’s the smell of blood on him. His hair is fanned out on the table like some twisted halo and if he didn’t believe in God before, he certainly doesn’t now, nor will he ever after the image of his body before him.  


He wants to say something, say anything; but he can only stare because there it is, there’s the proof that this is real. He’s outside his own body that is unmoving, that lies as if it is made of marble despite all the scars and cuts that line it from years of hard work on the force. His beard is splattered with a bit of blood and he can only smirk, because he bets that the beard will eventually be cleaned by anonymous hands and Dis will probably demand they shave it before they bury him— _it’s gotten a bit wild_ , Thorin thinks to himself, _everything’s gotten a bit wild hasn’t it?_  


He hopes they don’t cut his hair, though; he’s actually enjoyed the long hair but he wouldn’t put it past his sister to do something crazy during her grief. He remembers how her heart easily broke when Thror passed in a fit of madness and dementia and, sadly, Thorin’s kind of selfishly glad he went like this: stable, in his own mind, in the reality he knew and loved.  


But then he cannot help but think and hear in his mind his sister’s screams, his nephews' wails, and his brother’s fists on the floor because he, the patriarch of the Durinson family, has abandoned them. He doesn’t count Thrain, because the poor soul has been in hospice care for some time, confined to a wheel chair and a white-washed building. His mind too, failing, and Thorin is scared to think of how his father will react to his death.  


There will either be too many tears, or too much silence for anyone’s liking.  


They have suffered so much, too much, as a family, and it is because of Thorin that they will suffer again.  


It’s then that the man realizes, much to his surprise, that there is wetness on his cheeks, falling in sweet waterfalls down his skin, and Thorin’s hand reaches up to his face to touch the water; he hasn’t cried in what feels like forever, and now he stands here, staring death in the face and cannot help but cry. Not because his feels he should still be alive—of course, he wishes for such a thing—but because what this will mean for those he loves.  


He knows he’s been their rock for ages—and that they will carry on, they always have, it is the way of the Durinson folk and has been that way for centuries—but it is still terrifying to think they will have to do it, and that they will have to do it without him, and instead they will do it because of him.  


He doesn’t want to leave his sister alone with her sons; he doesn’t want to leave his party-happy and European-centric brother alone with his work and trysts. He doesn’t want to leave the ghost of his father to suffer alone. It’s been his purpose to be there for him, for all of them, and that purpose has been taken out from under him because of some twist of fate, and that thought makes a wail com up from his throat with roughness and pain.  


And then there are the others—Dwalin will be short a partner, and Thorin knows in due time, he will be replaced; he also wouldn’t be surprised if the funeral is official, is filled with cops and salutes and the firing of rifles and now, standing here facing his own mortality, he’s not sure he even wants that. Then there is Nori, who will have one less drinking buddy and confidant. And the others at the office, and the people he sees on a weekly basis because he cares...Gloin and his family...Balin and his brother over beer...  


Deep down, very much deep down, Thorin knows they will all carry on; but his heart still bleeds for what has happened because of his folly, because of his words, and he feels too entirely too lost for his own good.  


The silence stretches out for him, then, as he continues to stare and try ignore the tears that drip from his eyes; he admits to himself that he’s glad it’s him and not Dwalin, that he would rather be the martyr than the mourner, but that thought is overshadowed by the fact that he cannot even hear his own heartbeat anymore. There’s no thumping against his chest underneath a thick hand, nor are his lungs pumping air out and in anymore. His skin is its lovely lightly-tan shade of peach and bronze, but there’s translucency there; there’s no more ground, no more solidarity underneath his feet and fingers and as much as Thorin is happy he died and not someone else, he can’t help but hate what he has been given instead.  


He thus tries to ignore the whimper that comes from his lips, but it still echoes out in the room for no one to hear—none but _Him_ , it seems, for the owner of a soft hand that lands on him jerks him out of his stupor.  


Death stands on his right, coming up silently like the ghost of a church mouse, and there’s warmth in those eyes that have followed Thorin’s form for hours; the hand is earnest in its comfort and exudes a heat that reminds Thorin there is still life around him—even if it is not the type of life he would like.  


He never imagined Death would ever be a comfort to him after all these years, but here, in the silence and chrome of the morgue, he’d rather have a soft creature of bleakness and smiles than nothing at all—Bilbo is a sign that the world goes on for him, because as he stares at the man beside him, he whispers,  


“You mentioned something earlier…didn’t you? An offer?”  


“I did.” Bilbo whispers back in return, feeling it appropriately to keep the quiet as undisturbed as possible, “Come. You don’t need to be here anymore, Thorin.”  


“I just…I just can’t…” He doesn’t know what he wanted to say; there’s too many emotions, too many words that could be spoken and he cannot speak any of them.  


“I know. Come with me, then. We do have much to discuss, actually. And after all of this, I’m in need of something for my nerves.”  


Thorin actually finds himself snorting and smirking at that, “ _Your_ nerves? You’re not the one who has stared at his corpse, Baggins.” The taller brushes at his eyes, pride coming back into his body at the appearance of the other; crying alone is one thing, but crying in front of Death is another matter entirely.  


“True, very true.” Bilbo nods, “But…seeing those who have gone become emotional does not help this old heart of mine. It’s still painful after all of these years.” There’s a wistful smile on his face then, and Thorin cannot help but wonder how much Bilbo did see of him just now, if he can even see into him, see his thoughts, fears, and desires.  


If he knows the truth of Thorin’s nature more so than Thorin himself does.  


He does not get a chance to ask, for the other takes Thorin’s hand in his own, the other, skeletal appendage hidden and far from Thorin’s mind as Bilbo leads him to the wall and phases through; the hand then drops his, and Thorin knows this is probably the last chance he has to change his mind, back out, argue with the creature who beckons him.  


But he does no such thing—blame curiosity, blame the fact that Thorin has nowhere else to go or no one else to be with, or blame nothing at all—and instead he takes in a non-existing breath and walks through the solid structure too.  


After all, there’s no going back now.  


\---  


Bilbo winds up taking him to a café about three blocks from the police station; he’s never been here in all his years, but it’s a quaint place, with glass tables and green umbrellas scattered throughout the patio. From a bird’s eye view, they look like small green hills with nature, for there are flowers sewn on the umbrellas as well, all in a rainbow of colors. The glass of the tables sparkles like diamonds underneath the blazing sun, and normally, Thorin would care, but he’s too busy focused on the fact that they are seated in a crowd of people, and no one is paying them any mind.  


That, and Bilbo is chowing down on biscuit after biscuit, the basket in front of them, while tea steams on the smaller man’s right.  


“I do not understand.” Thorin comments after some moments; he’s forgone food and is more in awe of how quickly Death puts away carbs and how no one actually sees them, “How can we sit here and not be disturbed?”  


Bilbo smiles, “Because the living avoid Death, obviously. It is not that they know I am here consciously, sitting and eating. But their souls know it underneath the surface. This means I am not bothered wherever I go.”  


“And I?”  


“Well, you are dead, aren’t you? They cannot see you, or feel you.” Bilbo takes a sip of tea, curls flopping as he sighs happily, “To the living, this table is seen as merely empty, uninhabited. But no one will sit here because underneath it all, they can sense something is amiss. So they will avoid us.”  


It makes sense to Thorin, but he merely sighs, gazing out and away from Death; cars pass by the café, horns blaring as mid-day traffic takes a hold on Erebor; people are hurrying still, always hurrying, and there is laughter in the air from many, though it seems to reach Thorin’s ears at a slower pace. There are others seated at tables: couples holding hands over cups of coffee, a mother and son enjoying catching up on a reunion that has been years in the making, and even an older man that reminds Thorin of his grandfather reading the newspaper underneath a fedora the color of tan and the spirit finds himself sighing underneath the shade at the life around him.  


“So is this how you spend your time, then? Sitting and eating?” But just because he sighs and is wistful, it does not mean Thorin cannot make small talk, or prod at the reaper before him.  


Said reaper just chuckles, “Well, why not? Though it is not just sitting and eating.” Another biscuit—the third one?—disappears into a tiny mouth, “I enjoy my food as much as the next being.”  


“But you are not any ordinary being.”  


“And?”  


“And I just never expected Death to enjoy Earl Gray and butter so much.”  


That pulls a laugh out of Bilbo, “And I never expected Thorin Durinson to ask so many questions.”  


“I’m a _cop_ , of course I ask a lot of questions.” Thorin snorts out, and then corrects himself, “…was a cop, I guess.”  


“Obviously, my good man. You’re still wearing the uniform, after all.”  


Thorin takes the moment to look down at himself, and yes, Bilbo’s words are true; he’s still in the navy uniform he died in, which just makes him grumble with a grumpy attitude. Honestly do death and life need to be connected so closely? Could he not wear something else?  


“Oh, don’t give me that look.” Bilbo interrupts his brooding, “We can get you something else. Besides, your hair is a right mess and that needs to be fixed up, too.”  


“That’s entertaining, coming from you.” Thorin shoots back, settling into his chair even more; but the other just smiles, replying with,  


“My hair has always been like this, Thorin. Yours, well, I’m going to assume not so much. Considering there's blood and dirt in it.”  


“Are you always this bold with your words?” Thorin shoots back at him with a smirk, while the other hides his own in his hand; now that he’s closer to Bilbo, he notices the smaller details he did not see before in his own shock and sadness: the dimples on his cheeks, the misplaced freckles on his neck and the large ring on his nimble index finger; it holds a white, shining stone that, though it is rectangular in shape, reminds him of carved marble and pearls and it is placed on the shiniest silver and is well taken care of. It is in contrast with the black that surrounds Bilbo--the black coat, the black suit and tie, and only matches the white shirt underneath it all. It even clashes with the shoes Bilbo’s deigned to take off in order to air out his unusually hairy and large feet that Thorin is tempted to ask about, but decides against.  


“Maybe. I really do not see a reason to hide back words any more. Would you, if you were me?”  


He’s got a point; he’s got no reason to always be polite and proper—there’s truly nothing Thorin could do to him that Bilbo has not seen other humans do to each other a million times over, and truly, what reason would he have to care?  


But apparently, he does care on some level, for there’s a twinkle in his eyes and there’s a breath leaving his ‘lungs’, and Bilbo speaks plainly,  


“I do hope you don’t take my words as rude, though. That’s not the point of all of this.”  


“I’m still waiting for you to tell me the point of all of this, actually.”  


There’s silence then, as the reaper merely decides to swing his legs to and fro and form a fist with his chin resting on it, eyes staring into the tea that’s slowly going cold; it’s almost all gone, but there’s a small puddle in the cup, as if the drinker’s taste for the liquid suddenly has dried up in a moment of tension—which it has.  


Thorin crosses his arms then, because patience was never his strong suit; it’s never been, and it never will be.  


“…What would you say if I was to tell you I was quite lonely?” Bilbo quips quietly after a moment, and it’s actually not the response Thorin was expecting; thus, an eyebrow is raised to show surprise and he can only say,  


“I actually wouldn’t say anything…I wasn’t expecting that from you, honestly.”  


“Hmm…” Bilbo’s expression goes somber, then, his eyes darting away from the tea to the outside world, beyond their table, beyond the fence of the café, probably even beyond the physical bodies and machines that pass them, “I guess that is understandable. You have not thought of death as me before, and humans barely pay me any mind in the first place.”  


Thorin doesn’t know what to say to that, and decides that remaining silent is the best possible response he could give; it works, because Bilbo continues on.  


“I cannot even remember how long I’ve been doing this…I think it’s over eighty years, but who knows? It could merely be ten. Time has blurred for me.”  


“You mean you haven’t been doing this since…well…forever?”  


Death laughs at that, “Heavens, no! No! Oh, I know, I know. The whole ‘death is eternal’ thing is a real fairytale and such, right? The myth they put in the good books and tell on the news and such. But actually, no. I personally haven’t been doing this forever…perhaps there were others before me, I’d assume as much, but me?” Bilbo shrugs, then continues with, in a halting manner, “After I…well. You know…“  


“Died?”  


“Yes. Died. After I died, all I remember is…well. Being plucked out of…I really don’t know what, exactly. But I was given this task by my mentor and, well, I suppose you could call him my ‘boss’ as well.”  


“Do you mean God?” Thorin leaned in closer; he was curious, he would admit. Who ever got to talk to Death about the reality of the world? No one he knew, that was for sure.  


“Oh dear Maker above, I hope not!” Bilbo heartily laughed at that, “If Elrond is God, then I am going to insist on being an Archangel. No, no, Elrond is just in charge of all of the souls and such. He keeps things running smoothly for me in the bureaucracy department. You know, the ‘paperwork’ and such that needs to be taken care of. And he lets me know when and where I need to be, when a soul is ready to go…But this does not mean that I am near people on a regular basis, unfortunately.”  


“What do you mean by that? If you escort souls, aren’t you technically with them?”  


“Unfortunately, no. I merely speak to them, retrieve them from their bodies, and normally send them on their way. Sometimes we take a detour, and I let them say goodbye to one or two family members, but any interaction is limited to merely an hour, maybe an hour and a half. And I am not their primary focus, obviously.” Bilbo sighs, taking another bite of his food, pausing to swallow before going on with, “The majority of the time, this is the only interaction I have with people. And the rest of the time…well. When I do interact with another human being, it usually doesn’t end well.”  


“…How so?” Thorin edged the question nervously towards his companion, hesitant to hear the answer that he could hypothesize silently in his mind.  


“I usually end up killing them. Specifically, they usually end up dying when they find me, touch me, speak to me, because they are fated to.”  


“…I can see how that would make any contact with others…er…awkward.”  


Bilbo merely snorted and nodded, sitting back in his chair more as he spoke again,  


“Exactly. Just this morning, a man had a heart-attack on the main street near the shops. Right before I saw you for the first time, actually. Poor bloke bumped right into me and that was that.”  


“That’s…Well…”  


“Tragic? Upsetting? Trust me; I’ve used those descriptors before, Thorin. But there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s what makes even just sitting in places like this difficult—I do not necessarily know when someone is fated to die because of being near my presence.”  


“Has it happened before?” Thorin asked, fingers drumming with no sound on the table; Bilbo merely sighed at the question, and he figured there was no harm in explaining and answering.  


“Unfortunately, yes. When I first began all of this, I seated myself at a café similar to this one in Paris. I had not been giving an assignment, and Elrond had just given me more money to spend. You see, that’s how I take food and other items—he gives me money, I take the food or whatever without them noticing anything is missing, and leave the money, and no one is the wiser—because he understands that I, well, I miss the creature comforts of life. And there’s nothing wrong with taking as long as I repay them, yes?” A pause, a sip of the going-cold tea, and Bilbo continued.  


“Yes, well, that was what I did. I sat, and was about to take some money out of my coat, and go to the counter and just take a scone and leave a few Euros, like I had done before, but…I was seen. By a waitress.”  


“Really?”  


“Mm. Yes. Pretty young thing. She had a blonde ponytail, a ring on her finger and a future ahead of her. She started talking to me, in French, and of course, I could understand her. A perk of being who I am.” There was a smile there, but it was not almost sad—it _was_ sad. “She took my order and I knew something was wrong, then. Because no one else paid attention to me, and I could see how other patrons gazed at her…”  


“They thought she was talking to nothing, didn’t they?” Thorin suggested and Bilbo nodded.  


“Correct. You are very quick on the upkeep, Thorin, I’m impressed. But yes, she spoke to me, all excited, all delighted, and I sat there, eating that blueberry scone and she happily took my check from me an hour later.”  


“…What happened to her?” He could guess the answer; he didn’t want to hear it, but Thorin knew, in his still heart, that he had to hear it.  


“I followed her when she left work around seven that night. Mugging gone wrong, sadly. Poor thing didn’t have a chance, and the right bastard took her ring as she bled there in that alley and I was helpless to stop him. And even worse, her soul came to me—it was I who escorted her home.”  


“Was she angry?” His voice was full of pity for the creature in front of him; for Thorin is unsure how he would have reacted in Bilbo’s shoes, and he realizes that this small man before him is brave, but not for bravery’s sake. He is brave for the sake of his own sanity, for his own mentality.  


Death has to be a rock in this world, even if he longs to not be.

“No…Oddly enough, she was happy to see me. I guess having a friendly face escort you to wherever the other side is, whatever the other side is, is better than having no one at all.”  


“Did you tell her what exactly happened, though? Did you tell her the truth?”  


At that, Bilbo gives him a gaze that speaks volumes as he whispers, “If there is one thing I have learned throughout the years here, Thorin, it is that sometimes Death must have pity on the living. Perhaps it was partly out of selfish reasons, and partly out of wanting to spare her, but no, I did not tell her that I was Death. She merely believed I was helping her along, a friendly face and ghost that she remembered from moments ago. She had already suffered enough, why give her more pain to know that by talking to me, by seeing me, fate had sealed her life? And instead, now, I remember her always." A pause, "I always remember each one. Every single one. For someone has to."

Thorin says nothing at that, and watches Bilbo push away his plate; the pair is quiet for some time, Bilbo apparently lost in thought, Thorin truly unsure what to think or say as he sits across from what may possibly be the most powerful being in the world—it’s both a tragic idea, and a fantastical idea.  


“So you see now that I am quite alone in this eternity. Which leads me to bringing up my offer to you.”  


“Go on, then.” Thorin nods, interest piqued even more so after the details of Death have come out into the open.  


“Normally, I would be instructed to escort you to wherever you would go, a bright light and such, and you step on through. However, and let me know if this assumption is correct, I am thinking you are not ready to leave this world. That you still have many burning questions and an even bigger desire to stay.”  


“…You are correct.” Thorin tells him calmly after a moment, because there’s no point in denying it. He’s young, young enough to want to keep going, and he was cut down in his prime; he doesn’t want to leave this world, not yet. Not when he has family still living, not when he has an itching under his skin that tells him there’s more left to him, and more left for him to do. He doesn’t know what lies after this life, what lies after breathing and blinking, but Thorin knows he’s not ready to see it and give this all up. Not when he had his life taken too early.  


Bilbo smiled at the other’s answer, “Then this is my proposition: I keep you by my side for however long you wish. You stay with me and assist me in my work, and be my companion. Someone for me to talk to, someone that is, for all intents and purposes, another being that is not just another soul I must take home. And in turn, I grant you the ability to learn—I shall teach you many things that you are missing, Thorin Durinson.”  


“Teach me?” The other has to scoff at that, “Do not take this the wrong way, but what on Earth could you have to teach me?”  


And just like that, there is another change in Death—the friendly demeanor of Bilbo Baggins vanishes for a few seconds as his smile falters and his eyes grow serious and hard like stone.  


And Thorin wonders if the lighting changed just now, because he was sure that he saw…a _skull_ as part of Bilbo’s face; it was as if, when the sun went behind the clouds for a few, precious seconds, that Bilbo’s skin became clear like crystal, and there was a bone there, and a missing eye on the right side of his face.  


But the illusion, despite being heart-wrenching and causing Thorin to suck in a breath, vanishes after a moment, and Bilbo returns to his old self again, chuckling derisively,  


“You say that now, my friend, but I say you have much to learn. Your outlook on life has been nothing but inappropriate and hard like the boulders that surround the outskirts of this town. Think of this as you helping me with my work, and I showing you that there is more to life than work and fulfilling some holier-than-thou purpose.”  


The dark-haired male says nothing in return, merely staring as Death settles back more comfortably, any irritation he had felt at Thorin’s laughter gone for now; but the reminder is still there, hanging in the air—this is Death, powerful creature of the ethereal and material. He’s small and fragile-looking, and in all honesty, if he had been a normal human being, Thorin is certain he could snap the other’s neck with ease. He also is unassuming; had Bilbo been a normal human being, he would have paid him little mind…  


Or would he?  


 _There is still beauty there_ , Thorin haltingly admits to himself; why else would he have stared so deeply and long at the other upon meeting him on the street hours ago?  


Or…was that because of the fact that seeing Bilbo was a sign that his fate had been sealed? That he had been destined to die this day? Did he truly find him beautiful? Or had it all be a ruse upon his destined-to-die mind?  


“What are you thinking?” Bilbo calls out in the silence as Thorin broods and is thus snapped out of his reverie, “Something weighs on your mind.”  


“…It’s nothing.”  


“It’s never nothing, Thorin.”  


His brows furrow on their own accord at the other’s quick wit, and Bilbo just laughs.  


“You don’t have to tell me. I won’t press.”  


“Hmph.” He says nothing else and that causes Bilbo to smirk and continue with,  


“But I would like an answer to my proposition, Thorin. You are not the type of man to leave another hanging.”  


“And how would you know that?”  


The curly-haired creature says nothing…and instead winks at him while brushing off crumbs from his pants.  


And that seals it.  


Death is snarky, sassy, and is a challenge—and Thorin always loved challenges.  


Death is intelligent, charming (unfortunately), and seems that he has a goal of trying to get Thorin’s goat, goading him and teasing him—and Thorin’s always stood up to that kind of behavior.  


Besides, the man is right—he’s not done. He doesn’t want to be done. He wants to have a purpose, still, and if that means being Death’s ally, he’ll take it.  


Maybe he could teach this cheeky bastard a lesson or two himself.  


“You have a deal.” He drops the sentence like a bullet in the heart and it makes Bilbo grin like a delighted fellow who has received the biggest piece of cake.  


Death honestly shouldn’t look that cute when smiling and Thorin breathes out through his nose in frustration when the other speaks up with,  


“Wonderful! Let us shake on it.” And he offers his good hand, the one with the ring, and Thorin takes it up in an embrace; he shakes, but he cannot help how his eyes are drawn to the ring and he asks about it.  


“This is a lovely piece of jewelry.”  


“Thank you,” Bilbo slowly retrieves his hand, “I was given it upon becoming who I am. Elrond told me to always wear it, and that ‘I would know when it would be of use to me’.”  


“That…is an unusual thing to say about a simple ring.”  


“Quite! I honestly do not know what he meant…” Bilbo plays with the ring, turning the large white gem that, upon closer inspection—though Thorin will not admit to leaning closer into the other man's space—has ruins engraved upon it. “But I shall listen and keep it on me. Sometimes it rattles and I wonder if there is something inside it…but I do not know.”  


A sigh, and Bilbo stands, fixing his coat and Thorin takes it as his cue to also stand, pushing in his chair even if it is not necessary.  


“Then let us be off. I currently do not have any work at the moment, so I suppose a walk would be good, wouldn’t you think?”  


Thorin shrugs, “I suppose…Though…”  


“Hmm? What is it?” Bilbo is not gazing upon him, and is instead reaching into his pocket; what appears is a small metal flower, a poppy in the eyes of the experts of horticulture, comes out of the coat and with a flick of his wrist, there appears before them a black rod—a cane, Thorin’s mind tells him, a walking stick that gently thumps against the ground when Bilbo stands up with it.  


“I wish to ask you something but I am not sure how to word it.”  


“Is it about me?” Bilbo has already begun walking and it takes Thorin a minute to catch up; it is true, then—Death waits for no man.  


“No. It is actually a request.”  


That catches Death’s attention and he turns fully, stopping his feet and his grip tightens on the walking stick.  


“Go on, then, Thorin. I am not out to hinder you, but help you.”  


“I…Will I be able to see my family while I am with you?”  


“Oh? Oh, of course!” Bilbo chuckles, “Whenever you wish it. I see no reason in keeping you from them. If anything…” Bilbo trails off and his right arm fidgets, as if he wishes to unveil his other appendage and use it, but keeps himself held back, “If anything, seeing them may help you in many ways.”  


“Well…Thank you…”  


“That is not all you wanted to ask, was it?” The shorter probes not unkindly, “Go on. You need not be intimidated of me.”  


Thorin snorts, “I am hardly intimidated by you, even if you are Death.”  


“Really? Well good, I suppose. Though I have heard I can be very scary when angry, so I hope that never happens.”  


Thorin doesn’t say he actually believes that, as the image of the skull from before flashes in his memory.  


“Go on, go on. Do not keep me hanging on!” Bilbo teasingly pokes his side with the cane, and quips, “Oh, and we must get you out of that uniform.”  


It doesn’t even need to be said that Thorin’s eyebrows skyrocket at that, and Bilbo actually sputters as he stares at Thorin's expression,  


“You know what I mean! I promised you a change of clothes, that is all!”  


“Uh-huh.”  


Another whack of the cane and though Thorin can feel it, it does not hurt, “You are impudent.”  


“You’re the one wanting to get me out of my uniform.” There’s a smirk on his face even if Thorin doesn’t register it and Bilbo groans tiredly.  


“Enough! Just tell me what you want. I do not have all day for this.”  


“Really? From our conversation, I gathered that you have all the time in the world.”  


There’s a glare in Bilbo’s eyes now, some of his hair flopping onto his forehead as if his hair himself doesn’t appreciate the sass, either.  


“Not for you being like this. Now, what is it? And if you make another joke about removing clothes, I am leaving.”  


Thorin’s almost tempted, but he really doesn’t want to upset the man anymore; instead, he sobers, and speaks quietly,  


“I was hoping to ask…I wish to attend my funeral.”  


That clearly wasn’t the request Bilbo figured he would get, because there is shock painted everywhere all over his expression.  


“Your funeral? Are you sure?”  


“Yes. I…I wish to be there for it.”  


Death actually bites his lip, and his eyes dart back and forth, as if he is in deep contemplation. It takes a moment before any other words are spoken,  


“Well…I suppose you have earned the ability to see your send-off, after dying like so. But Thorin, it could be difficult for you. I cannot promise that I will be able to spare you any hurt from your fate.”  


“I understand.” He sighs, then, “I just…If my story is to end like so, should I not see the ending if I have the chance?”  


“I normally don’t allow it—many do not wish to see the tears that come forth, or witness the burial, nor should they see either. Are you quite certain you will be able to handle it?”  


“Truthfully? No.” Thorin shrugs, hands going into his pockets and in the back of his mind, he does not register the feel of fabric on skin, for there is none, “But this is what I am asking of you.”  


“I like your honesty…” Bilbo lets out air from his lips and stands a bit straighter, “Very well. We shall go. Perhaps it will teach you a few things, too, if I am lucky. But it more than likely will not be for a few days, and we will have to eavesdrop in order to find out when it is, so can you be patient?”  


“For this, yes.” Thorin gives him a smile, a genuine smile, and says after a heartbeat, “Thank you.”  


“Oh, do not thank me just yet. You may end up regretting this, and I would feel immensely guilty for allowing this to occur.”  


“Don’t,” Thorin tells him as they begin walking once more, people in the café’s square moving around them with ease as they venture out onto the sidewalk, where more souls pass by them as if they were not there—which, they are not—“Do not feel guilty even if this turns out to be a bad idea…I shall not regret it.”  


“Hmm?” A gaze filled with surprise meets his eyes just then, “You sound quite certain of that.”  


“You claim I have much to learn, but I will say this: I learned long ago to have as few regrets as possible, and to appreciate what happens to oneself from many angles and different points of view.”  


Bilbo nods then, “Yes, that…that is a good thing to learn and believe, I suppose…” There’s a sigh there, and Thorin feels it is a sigh holding many words underneath the surface; yet, he does not press—there’s no need to upset the precarious balance the two of them have created for themselves.  


Instead, Thorin lets Bilbo lead him down the street in noiseless companionship; their shoulders are inches apart, the clouds are high in the sky, and there’s sun on their skin. They may be dead, but they can feel that heat, feel the warmth that touches them, and it causes Thorin to ask,  


“What can I feel and what can I not?”  


“Is that supposed to be a philosophical question?” Bilbo questions back with a leer of teasing and he laughs at Thorin’s glower and it rings out into the world with something akin to majesty.  


“You can feel the world around you, if you wish it. Do you think I just eat to eat? No, no…I can taste the saltiness of bread and butter, the sweet bitter tang of tea…I feel the sun on my skin, the warmth of this coat…I feel everything else but the people around me, Thorin. And you can, too. If you want it.”  


“And yet we are cut off from what we really wish to feel…”  


“Yes…” Bilbo trails off then, and shakes his head, “Though if you wish for someone to smack you at any point in time, I will happily volunteer. I can still touch you, after all.”  


“Hah! As if you could actually reach me—OW!”  


There’s a crack in the air before Thorin even has time to react, and there’s pain in his head—and he notes it is one of the first things he has felt since awakening, besides actual embarrassment, emotion, rage, and more.  


“Don’t test me, Thorin Durinson.” Bilbo merely smirks at him, and begins to hum a tune as he leaves the other standing on the sidewalk in wonderment at how Death not only hit him with his cane, but how he hit him so fast.  


“…I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” He whispers under his breath, and yet Death hears him—because _obviously_ he would--for,  


“You know, it is said that those who talk to themselves are more prone to bouts of insanity!” His voice is sing-songy, chipper like the birds in the air, and Thorin’s torn between throwing Death down into the sewers, and _pushing_ him down into the sewers.  


He doesn’t think there’s a plausible third option at this point.  


“I am the sanest person you will ever meet!” Thorin bellows at him as he hurries to catch up, and the creature, the being, before him just laughs again.  


“Sanity is a subjective word, you know, and has a subjective definition, a different definition for each person. So forgive me if I do not agree with what you—EEP!“  


And it is then, when Thorin actually gets the chance to push Death into an open manhole while street-workers fix the sewers, that he believes that the Maker just gave him the sweet, simple gift of hearing Bilbo Baggins squeal in agony as he landed in the muck.  


It makes him almost want to believe in a Maker in the first place as he hears his companion scream and wail in anguish and anger.

“YOU HAVE RUINED MY COAT, YOU BRUTE!” The shriek echoes up from the hole and Thorin, for the first time in a long time, actually laughs heartily at that.  


“You started it!” He calls down as Bilbo groans and climbs up, dripping gunk and sopping wet, and looking downright murderous.  


It’s actually kind of cute.  


“You…You…!”  


“Come now, I think you promised to…oh…’get me out of this uniform’?”  


“If anyone is getting you out of that uniform, it certainly won’t be me. You can bloody do it yourself!”  


“Ah…What a pity.” Thorin smirks, “Then again, if you were offering, I’d have to say no. You smell something awful.”  


Bilbo’s eyes have a blaze in the irises and he’s snarling but he keeps walking; Thorin just shakes his head and tries not to think that he’s actually flirting with Death—because he’s not, _he’s not_ , and wow, that phrase has taken on a whole new meaning—but it is truly downright humorous to rile up the man.  


But of course, he does have pity on poor Bilbo Baggins; the man runs into a public restroom groaning and bemoaning his clothes and self, and Thorin maybe, just maybe, offers him a towel with a half-smile and quirked eyebrow, silently asking if all is well.  


Bilbo yanks the towel out of his hands, and thought it would seem there’s no forgiveness present, the silence that stretched before them is broken when Bilbo tells him he has the perfect store for him…and then maybe hits him with the dirty towel across the back with a whump.  


Neither truly knows what is going on; this wasn’t what they expected when the deal was made—companionship was not thought of teasing, pushing, shoving, disagreements; it was not thought of as teasing Thorin by going to a female clothing store first and being cheeky about how a lovely floral skirt would look divine on his hips and causing Thorin to throw a hat at Bilbo’s head. It was not thought of as small smiles at cheek and sass, it was not thought to be actual conversation that was half argument, and half diabolical pranking.  


But both know, in the depths of their minds, that they wouldn’t have it any other way.  


And both know that, as Thorin enters the actual store Bilbo means to take him to, that companionship is also seen as subjective—and no two definitions are alike.  


\---

_Well what is this that I can't see  
_

_With ice cold hands takin' hold of me  
_

_Well I am Death, none can excel  
_

_I'll open the door to Heaven or Hell_


End file.
